


Sunrise

by mylordshesacactus



Category: RWBY
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Literal Sleeping Together, SO MUCH FUCKING TENDERNESS, Shovel Talk, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, tenderness level: pot roast forgotten in slow cooker for 72 hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22051585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylordshesacactus/pseuds/mylordshesacactus
Summary: Robyn's realization is not a thunderclap. It's slower than that, gentler, more inevitable; a wave breaking on the shore, the light of dawn, a compass swinging slowly toward home.
Relationships: Robyn Hill/Fiona Thyme
Comments: 62
Kudos: 236





	Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kablob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kablob/gifts).



> Last fic of 2019 and we are going out STRONG we are bringing GOOD VIBES ONLY into the new year we are LYING FACEDOWN ON THE FLOOR AND CRYING because of how soft these two are we are AN EMBARRASSING MESS can I get a hell yeah.

Atlas never sleeps, and neither can the fight against its excesses. 

The glittering lights cycle over their heads, ceaseless, day and night, visible only in the vague reflections they throw off the tundra. The fuzzy-edged glow around the city’s base when you look up, light pollution muting any hint of the few stars the citizens of Mantle would be able to see.

And as Atlas never sleeps, neither can Mantle be allowed to rest. The shipments never stop; the mine transports run without a hint of a break. At any hour there are guaranteed to be workers headed to the mines, or walking home, or to the stores—most of which are open around the clock for just that reason, and which therefore need around-the-clock staffing. 

It’s telling, the way the Atlas military handles unusually high Grimm activity—and it really is the _Atlas_ military, Robyn has spat that truth enough times for it to sink in. In the city of Atlas, curfews tend to be a _functional,_ if not _good,_ method of keeping the population safe during normal fluctuations in the population. Grimm are drawn to concentrated knots of people. And in Atlas, where the perpetual flow of humanity mostly consists of nightlife and the kind of businesses that stay open 24/7 for their customers can afford, and be legally required, to pay their employees during Grimm lockdowns, it’s a decent intervention.

In _Mantle,_ a curfew translates to a good third of the city suddenly being unable to report to work. And in Mantle, a single missed shift can devastate a life. The SDC is technically legally bound to compensate its miners during lockdowns; but Jacques Schnee has always managed to find ways around that. Mostly by making the actual base wage a pittance, and forcing the mine workers to earn a living wage through “bonuses” that are exempt from the law.

Curfews and lockdowns in Mantle _always_ draw in the Grimm. And Ironwood never, ever listens…

It never ends.

But even in an endless, grinding, bitter dance of forever taking one step forward and six steps back—even in this fight, there are quiet moments.

Atlas never sleeps, and neither can Mantle—but Robyn and her girls are only mortal, and if the fight never rests, _they_ still have to.

Burnout has always been the looming threat in their line of work, even more than the Grimm. A skilled Huntress, with a good team, can handle most Grimm. It’s exhaustion that kills; halfheartedness, a sense of detachment from the people they protect. It’s a danger even within the military’s support system; for their ragged band of independent contractors, it’s the greatest peril they’re ever likely to face. And guarding them against it is Robyn’s primary duty.

All of which is to say, movie nights are sacrosanct and not to be interfered with by anything less than an actual perimeter breach.

As usual, Joanna’s fallen asleep sprawled across most of the ratty couch. Legs stretched halfway to the other side of the room, arms resting along the back cushions, head lolling back. An old Academy sweatshirt, probably once belonging to May, is shoved behind her neck, propping her head up just enough to keep her from snoring. Robyn, head resting on Joanna’s shoulder, can’t quite remember whose idea that was

May herself has a pair of wool socks over her eyes, using one armrest and a wadded-up blanket as a pillow with her feet resting across both their legs. There’s an empty popcorn bowl resting on her chest.

Robyn considers rescuing it before anyone else wakes up and starts moving; but slight pressure on her ribs when she starts to shift puts an end to that plan. 

Fiona is curled up against Robyn’s chest, tucked between her body and the sofa back; at some point the back cushion had been transferred under Joanna’s heels to make room. She’s so small Robyn had barely noticed the weight—and looks so exhausted, even fast asleep, that the idea of waking her is obviously out of the question.

It’s early, anyway.

Robyn settles back into a more comfortable position in the curve of Joanna’s arm, nearly holding her breath as Fiona shifts in her sleep; when she doesn’t stir, Robyn relaxes again.

That she’s the first awake is far from surprising. Everyone sleeps late in winter, when they can; and it _is_ winter now, truly and completely, even if it’s still early in the season. Part of the immutable law of movie night is that no alarm clocks are permitted. They wake when their bodies are ready, and with the sun rising so late in the day now, Robyn’s surprised she’s awake as early as she is.

Then again, Robyn’s always been a light sleeper. And it’s...nice. This sense of peace.

The windows are fogged, though not frosted over. Up in Atlas, sometimes, the heating grids are carefully manipulated to allow for clean white holiday snow without dropping into what _they_ deem dangerous territory—in Mantle that kind of precision is a pipe dream, the homeless population is too high to conveniently ignore, and messing with the settings would result in widespread death and panic. They get cold rain, sometimes, when sections of the grid are on the fritz. Hail, since it generally doesn’t melt fast enough before hitting the ground, on those days the blizzard is strong enough to blow sideways and under Atlas’ bulk. So that’s always a fun novelty.

For now, though, the chillier outside air fogging up against the interior heating elements creates a soft effect that's undeniably soothing. The sun is just barely beginning to rise, somewhere out on the tundra. This early in the morning, at so low an angle, even the hovering monolith of Atlas can’t steal it from them.

Pale, pink sunlight diffuses through the fogged glass, casting a gentle glow over the bare room. And Robyn can’t help but smile, running idle fingers through a sleeping Fiona’s hair.

It’s not a thunderclap. Not nearly.

That would imply a...jolt, a suddenness and ferocity that simply isn’t there. It’s not a bolt from the blue, not a lightning strike. If anything, it’s...a wave, coming in from the sea after too long spent in the cold and the dark. Like any cliffside breaker, it’s always been there; with nothing to draw it to the surface its weight has simply gone unnoticed, a gentle rolling presence below her awareness. Until warmth and light draw it in, slow and inexorable; and it crashes with a whisper in her ears, rushing between her ribs, with more power and tenderness combined than she’d ever thought possible.

_Oh,_ she thinks, eyes wide with mild shock. Her fingers go still, choppy white hair slipping through them as she looks down. Slowly, as if for the first time, she strokes Fiona’s hair back from her face again. _Oh._

The soft, quiet thing in her chest breathes:

_Oh._

Seconds or hours later, the twitch of May’s foot jolts her back to reality.

For a moment it looks like May could just be dreaming; eventually however the twitching foot stretches properly along with the rest of her, withdrawing in time to a wide yawn and a hastily whispered _“shit”_ as she audibly scrambles to catch the popcorn bowl before it topples to the floor.

She half-succeeds; Robyn’s lips twitch at the faint sound of stale popcorn kernels scattering across the worn floorboards, but there’s no loud clatter of falling plasticware.

There’s a long pause, in which Robyn’s fingers find their way into Fiona’s hair again. May gives one last jaw-cracking yawn—literally; it can be heard from the other end of the couch—before stretching and rolling to her feet.

Robyn’s smile widens as a bleary-eyed May shuffles into view. Her hair wrap’s come partially undone in her sleep, steel-blue hair sticking out at odd angles, and there’s still a sock slung over her shoulder that she doesn’t seem to have noticed as she rubs her face. When May’s hands finally lower enough to notice Robyn’s silent laughter, she’s too tired to do anything but make a rude gesture in her beloved team leader’s general direction.

“First person up is _supposed_ to make coffee,” May reminds her, pitching her voice well below any risk of waking the others. It’s something Robyn taught them. Whispers carry, in the field; a low murmur is far subtler, once you have the trick down.

Robyn smiles, carding gentle fingers through Fiona’s hair, and mouths, _I’m stuck._

“Sure you are,” is the nearly-inaudible retort, but May’s eyes sparkle with affection for them both.

At least for a moment. Robyn winks at her, but—inevitable as an ocean wave again, like a compass point, like the pull of the tide—can’t keep her eyes off Fiona for more than a moment.

How long? She’s never…she doesn’t think of her girls this way, she would never risk violating the trust of a teammate, wouldn’t have ever _considered_ ...but she doesn’t appear to have been given a choice. Not with the way the weak light of an early winter morning casts highlights in golden lace through Fiona’s hair, lifts the tired shadows from around her eyes. Not with how earth-shakingly _right_ she feels, tucked safe and trusting against her side.

When she blinks, looks back up at May, it’s to find too-intelligent golden eyes flicking between them. May holds her hands up when she notices Robyn noticing her.

Whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t feel the need to share it just yet.

Their little apartment is pleasantly quiet for a while; Robyn lets herself doze, until the nearby smell of coffee drags her reluctantly back to the world of the living.

She cracks one eye open, already half-smiling in preparation for whatever snarky comment May intends to make about her leadership qualities at the moment—and blinks at what she finds instead.

Hesitant and uncertain, May hovers for a long moment before heaving a sigh and crouching near Robyn’s head.

“Hey Fiona,” she calls softly, barely audible. “You awake? You planning to wake up?”

“Leave her be,” Robyn whispers.

“Just checking.” May sits back on her heels, looking up with an expression of deep, uncomfortable concern. “Robyn, uh…”

Robyn arches an eyebrow, and May winces.

“I’m…” After a moment, she sighs again and gestures toward the sleeping Fiona. “Robyn, I’m not gonna need to give you the shovel talk, am I?”

Robyn’s other eyebrow flies to join the first, nearly vanishing under her hair. May gives another, apologetic wince but doesn’t back down.

“You don’t see how she looks at you,” she murmurs, watching the way Robyn’s fingers tighten just slightly in messy white hair, the free hand that’s shifted to rest over Fiona’s hip. 

Robyn’s soft response surprises even her. “I’d like to.”

May’s eyes tighten. “You could snap your fingers and have any woman on Remnant eating out of your hand, Robyn. She _knows_ you could. You...you could really hurt her.”

It’s not as if Robyn’s ignorant of the mess it can cause, pursuing a teammate. The opposite, in fact. “May,” she protests in a whisper. “You’re jumping at shadows. I haven’t even _talked_ to her yet.”

It’s May’s turn to quirk an eyebrow; some of her worry has at least started to fade, replaced by amusement.

“Sure,” she says. “Want to place some bets on that? I can offer you decent odds.”

“May,” Robyn complains under her breath. May smirks for a moment, then gets carefully to her feet.

“Here.” She transfers the steaming cup of coffee into Robyn’s free hand, and hesitates before gently pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Be careful? We care about you. Both of you.”

“I will,” breathes Robyn. “May...Thank you.”

That gets her a smug grin, finally. “Just so we’re clear,” says May, voice still low enough that Joanna has yet to twitch. “If you screw this up, I _will_ have to kill you.”

Robyn takes a sip of her coffee and smiles over the rim. “I expect you to make it look like an accident.”

May winks, and disappears back into the kitchen. And Robyn...closes her eyes, and breathes, and tries to decide what in the world gives her the right to risk Fiona’s happiness. Because this _works,_ the four of them; and whatever May thinks, Robyn _does_ see the way Fiona looks at her, mostly. Robyn is her leader. She has...a duty. A responsibility to her. Placing Fiona in a position to second-guess any act of kindness, or this simple intimacy that none of them have ever hesitated over before—it would be cruel, not to mention irresponsible, to pull the rug out from under her feet that way.

But of course she has to. The part of Robyn that wants to say nothing, nothing that would risk Fiona pulling back in a way that would prevent her from having this kind of precious moment again, is worse than a coward—it’s selfish. She has a right to make her own decisions. Taking more than Fiona would give if she understood is not something Robyn can justify and call it kindness.

As if summoned by the mere thought of her name, Fiona hums and stirs, nuzzling up into Robyn’s neck.

Has that _always_ made Robyn’s heart flutter this way?

“Mmm,” she mumbles. “Coffee?”

Robyn can’t help a quiet laugh. She _could_ resist the urge to sweep Fiona’s hair back yet again, but doesn’t even bother to try. She lets her knuckles brush Fiona’s temple as she offers the mug with her other hand. “Here. It’s mostly cocoa, actually. May knows what you like.”

Fiona gives another sleepy hum but doesn’t move to take the mug. “If I drink that,” she mumbles into Robyn’s shirt, “I’ll have to wake up.”

“It’s almost ten, lambchop.” Robyn smiles. “Even Joanna has to get up eventually.”

She says, as if her empty hand isn’t trailing along Fiona’s spine, silently coaxing her to relax again.

“Says you,” is the muttered response; but Fiona rolls over slightly, just enough to technically be more _beside_ Robyn than on top of her. She is not too proud to accept Robyn’s mocha when it is offered again. “So, why’s May going to kill you?”

Robyn freezes. Briefly, she hopes it’s not obvious; but Fiona is sleepy, not dead. Robyn has held entire conversations with her Huntresses without any of them needing to use a signal, let alone say a single word. And Fiona has always been more in tune with her than any of them.

Yes, all right, May has a point and Robyn is very, very stupid sometimes.

“How long have you been awake?” she asks.

Bright green eyes flash up at her. “Well. _That’s_ not a suspicious answer at all.”

Robyn tugs lightly on the nearest wooly ear. “Go back to sleep. You were nicer.”

“I’m kind of getting mixed signals here,” says Fiona with a smile. It fades into concern, ears pricking forward and green eyes darting between violet as Robyn only smiles back. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” says Robyn, which is both a lie and the truest thing she’s ever said in her life. “May’s just _very_ perceptive.”

“That’s irony, or something,” Fiona offers. “She’s not going to kill you, then? I’d miss you.”

Robyn fingers the loop earring, triggering a giggle as Fiona’s ticklish ear flicks reflexively out of her hand.

“May’s not going to have to kill me,” Robyn confirms quietly. She weakens enough to let her fingertips trace Fiona’s jaw. “Because I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

It’s obvious that Fiona’s not certain what that means. She cocks her head, ears twitching but wearing a confused smile. “Well,” she says, awkward but upbeat. “That’s good to…”

She blinks. 

Her eyes snap to Robyn’s, blown wide with abject shock. “Oh!” She blinks, rapid-fire, and Robyn waits—still, and silent, heart galloping in her chest. “Oh. _Robyn...”_

Robyn knows what needs to be said. The words are already on her tongue—the promise that nothing needs to change between them, the assurances that her regard for Fiona is absolute no matter the nature of their relationship, an apology for putting her in this position at all. They’ll be said, they will, they have to be—but not yet. Not today, as it happens. 

Fiona’s shock passes quickly. Robyn suspects—or would, if she were capable of any kind of higher thought right now—that the uncontrolled smile is mirrored on her own. Fiona’s face burns, briefly, with a wild and reckless exhilaration; then that too starts to melt away. 

_“Oh.”_

And in its place is an expression of _peace;_ slow to build but all-encompassing and certain, joyous, lighting up her eyes like wonder, like love, like the rising sun.


End file.
